


Something to Fight For

by WithDropsofJupiterInHerHair



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithDropsofJupiterInHerHair/pseuds/WithDropsofJupiterInHerHair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the crew’s berthing, on the afternoon of April 17th, sailor Louis Tomlinson gives young air force pilot Harry Styles something to fight for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to Fight For

**Author's Note:**

> 7K A short little one shot became this massive novel as I discovered a new world. Bits of it were like pulling teeth trying to find just the right words to describe the scene, but I hope that it only helped to clarify the world for you. I honestly came to love it, and I can only wish that you do too as it is unveiled to you.
> 
> History Buffs: For the sake of this story, I’ve made a few changes to this event. Rather than merely having experienced air force personnel, I’ve included newcomers in the raid. Also, I’ve lengthened their stay on the Hornet to a few months rather than two weeks. In case you want to have a go at me over inaccuracies, I’m fully aware of them.

Even three two floors below deck, with steel walls around him and the covers thrown haphazardly about him, he could still hear the test flights.  He hasn’t heard anything other than them since the ship found itself west of Midway.

He doesn’t think it would be so bad if the spin of the propellers didn’t simply send unanswered questions flying about his head.  Where is he going, had any of these men even been there before?  What is  he doing, risking his life for a country he’d hardly been in for eighteen years?  What is he fighting for?

These are the answers that you think they’d give you along the way--of course it’s common knowledge once you get far enough along.  Without a doubt, they don’t expect the civilians to know all about what the troops are fighting for, but they’ll surely tell you once you sign your name to a sheet and say you’ll fight for them, they’ll give you your cause.  Then you make it to training and you find out all of these things that you never knew about wars and fighting and offensive flying--of course they would tell you that alongside all of the other valuable information.  Sooner or later you’re on the carrier, on your way to go out and possibly never come back from fighting whatever it is that you’re fighting for.  When is it that they tell it to a man, then?  When they’re rechecking the gas as he prepares to pull off down the runway?  Or is he supposed to hear the answer in his shaky breath before the tide takes him under?

“Whatcha thinking about so hard?”

The voice is gentle as it pulls him back into the  _Hornet_ , back into the berthing, back into the bunk with the smaller man tangled around him beneath the sheet.  If anyone walks in, they’re dead.  It’s out of the military and back into the dust fields, if they’re lucky.  The brig would be their safest bet for a sight such as this.

As if reading Harry’s face, Louis nuzzles further into Harry’s chest.

“ _Relax_ \--the only one that might come in here is ol’ Joe and he wouldn’t dare tell on us--not when I found his stash three days ago.”  Regardless of his words, he shimmies the sheet up past his hair and offers a small smile from beneath it, as if to please Harry.  “I’m sure they’d be just as fierce with a drunk sailor as they’d be with a gay one.”  He whispers the last part, knowing the thought of someone hearing will make Harry flinch.

“Anyway,” Louis presses a casual kiss to the exposed skin of Harry’s collar, to recapture his attention more than anything else, “What’s getting you all bent out of shape?”

Harry sighs, arm slipping beneath the sheets to trace absentminded waves across Louis' back, matching them with the rhythm of the vessel.

“What are we here for, Lou?"

“What do you mean what are we here for?” Louis laughs, flashing a hesitant smile, “We’re here to send you boys over to give those damn Japs what for.”

“ _Louis,_ ” the warning tone doesn’t quite make it to his eyes, but as he feels a sigh spread across his chest, Harry knows Louis has received it regardless.

“ _I don’t know,_  Harry.”   There’s something different in the way he struggles to bury is head now.  “ _Freedom_ \--isn’t that what they’re saying back home?  Isn’t that what everyone fights for?  We’re fighting for freedom, and to give those damn Japs what for.”

An unexpected laugh courses through Harry, easing his stiff muscles.  Louis makes an appreciative noise as his nudges return to a gentle nature.

He hasn’t answered Harry’s question, he’s just as aware of that as Harry, but neither of them say another word about it.  Instead, Harry lets his words continue to wander along with his circling thoughts.

“I can’t believe it’s tomorrow.”

The noise against his chest is less appreciative than it had previously been, nuzzling movements pausing and sheet hanging uselessly over his head as he raises himself up to look Harry straight in the eye.

“You’re going to be fine,” he asserts, pronouncing each syllable crisply and slowly.  Harry can’t help but recognize that none of the words coming through match the softness in his eyes.  “I’ve watched you study your drills for days on end and heard you mumble commands in your sleep and have been ditched for just enough practice flights to know that you’ll do alright--more than alright.  You’ll be a regular flying ace.”

Harry doesn’t say anything back, he doesn’t even think anything in response.  He just watches Louis and breathes.  He does this thing sometimes (though he’s never confessed it to Louis for the sake of his ego) where he’ll watch Louis and his eyelashes brushing his cheekbones and him licking his lips when he’s nervous and the way that he watches Harry in return and it calms him.  He’s sure he’s never seen anyone as beautiful as Louis, not even one of those pin-up girls he’s seen Jeremy Waters and the boys hiding under their cots.

He remembers the day they met, Harry’s first day aboard the ship.  One of the members of the crew had been goofing off--as punishment he had to show around the Air Force boys and get them acquainted with the ship.  The man was tan skin and slow curves and elegantly hilarious.  Two weeks later they were pressed up against the last stall in the restroom drunk on Jimmy Simmons’ smuggled whisky and each other.

Louis takes him by surprise once again, startling him out of his trance and straight into uneasy breathing.  His lips are once again on Harry’s skin, only this time less innocently so.  Now they are working against it, with it, pulling at it and bringing the blood to the surface--this has become Louis’ favorite thing to do when Harry warns him that he will be busy for a few days.  Louis says he likes to give Harry something to remind him of what they have, as well as something he enjoys watching him scramble to conceal.  Harry suspects Louis is doing this now to give him something to remember the sailor by and to distract him from the task at hand.  He watches the way that Louis pulls gently at the skin there before setting the sting to a smolder with the cool swipe of his tongue.  Maybe it’s to distract both of them.

“ _Louis._ ” Harry calls out, only this time it’s not a warning.  It’s not even a statement.  It’s a question, to which Louis' eyes drift up from his work in silent response.

And that’s it before Harry’s pulling the smaller man up, sheets and all, so that his frame rests flush atop Harry’s.  Harry wastes only a moment smirking at the wide eyes which seem once again to have forgotten the boy’s strength.  Then he’s tugging Louis down by the stripes of his collar until their lips come crashing together.

It’s been long, too long.  Since five days ago when they had been the last ones in the galley after breakfast, when Louis so bravely insisted on kissing--rather than wiping--away the bit of margarine left over on Harry’s lip from his biscuit.  Harry, being the teenage boy that he is, happily offered up the plump lip which Louis took between his own, swiping his tongue across the smooth surface a few times for good measure.  They broke apart just as Major Strausser strode into the galley, intent on discussing the rations to be sent with the boys in Doolittle’s raid.

That included, this is much more than a simple kiss between two young lovers.  This isn’t making up for past time spent apart, yet somehow making up for future separation in advance.  Harry sucks hard on Louis’ bottom lip, hoping that if he does so long enough, the sensation will last until the next time they meet.  Louis seems to share the idea as he kisses back feverishly, tongue darting out to search Harry’s mouth thoroughly as if to memorize the taste of the curly haired boy.  Coconut, Harry discovers is the taste of Louis, and he’s suddenly sure that it’s the most absurd thought he’s had in his life--he’s out on a steel boat as far from Hawai’i  as any man could be, and yet he tastes exotic fruit on this man’s tongue.  He must be going crazy.  He decides that Louis has been driving him crazy since the day since the day he boarded this damned carrier, and that Louis himself is as crazy and exotic and free as the coconuts on his tongue.

Suddenly the coconuts are vanished, replaced by stale, salty air.

“We don’t have much longer before they come looking after you,” Louis breathes into the air between them.

Harry frowns at the words and immediately silences any further unsettling messages with the press of his lips, but Louis is persistent, returning the embrace for only a moment before he’s away again.

“I want to give you a proper send off.” 

Harry blinks at the words, stilling and willing his mind not to read any more into them than has been reasonably alluded to.

“A proper send off,” he swallows the words, finding them suffocatingly heavy on his tongue.

“A  _proper_  send off,” Louis answers, an entrapping gleam in his eye as he arches his back, reaching to press one last kiss to Harry’s mouth before sliding down the lanky frame.

He starts at Harry’s neck, littering the skin their with future memories and distractions, while nipping at the still-fading ones he comes across on his way down.  Harry doesn’t object; he can’t even think with those lips attached at his pressure point and the small sailor straddling his waist and the bum he could feel accidentally pressed against his throbbing…  _oh,_  a  _proper_  send off.

And he’s pulling Louis up again, sheet falling uselessly around their waists.  Harry doesn’t care, can’t care.  All he can focus on is accurately channeling every feeling of shock and desire and  _something_  more into one short kiss.  He settles for molding his lips to the familiar thin ones, begging permission before caressing the roof of the smaller man’s mouth with the tip of his tongue.

The stale air doesn’t taste quite as bad the third time around.

“I take that as a yes.”

Harry doesn’t have to answer--he simply smiles into a single chaste kiss before Louis is moving away once again.

Harry hears Louis murmur several apologies as he fiddles with the buttons on Harry’s shirt, but can truly concentrate on nothing aside from the soft movements of the older man’s hands against his skin.  They’re soft and delicate and the comforting patterns they’re tracing only add to the goose bumps on Harry’s freshly exposed abdomen.

Harry closes his eyes for a moment,  taking in the sights on the backs of his eyelids.  He sees, feels, strong summer breezes across prairie fields in Kansas, followed by the roll and tug of the ocean waves on California beaches.  He sees a full dinner table, his family and sincere smiles.  He sees Louis crashing around him and calming him just as well as the other scenes, and even more breathtaking.

Harry opens his eyes to dainty fingers spread wide across his chest, each barely covering any width across it.  He’s heard stories, from the boys in the city, about what the men do to each other when they’re old enough to go to the gay bars.  He’s heard all about hands and mouths and bed linens.  Feeling the precision in the movements of Louis’ fingertips and the still-burning marks littering his neck, Harry is sure that he’s ready to find out for himself.

They’ve never done this before, only having been together several times in empty stalls, fully clothed throughout them all.  But the combination of the cool air and Louis pressed against his chest is intoxicating, and Harry craves more.

This intoxication is what Harry blames as he reaches forward, crashing Louis to his lips once more as his hands work carefully at the hem of his top.  He lets his fingers brush against the skin below, soft and warm and trembling around his touch.  The thought of him making Louis lose this control over his own body is too much, leaving Harry with less patience and tighter pants.  

A moment later, his hands are lost completely from view, navy cotton wrinkled at his elbows as his fingertips trace every curve of smooth skin.  Harry is suddenly overcome with the desire to memorize Louis, to be with him in a way that he hopes no one has ever been before.  His fingers dig into place at the thought.

Then he freezes, because Louis is lost in the moment, candid moans filtering into the kiss just as easily as the curve of his leg slips between Harry’s thighs.  That’s when Harry feels it, against his hip, making its presence known with the lustful roll of Louis’ hips.  Harry can feel Louis’ desire matching his own.

Louis wants this,  _wants Harry._   Louis wants him so badly that the words echoing in Harry’s mouth are no longer coherent, and his skin is still trembling beneath Harry’s dull nails, and he is rubbing firmly against Harry’s hip in a blind search for relief.  Harry is sure that he’s never wanted anyone more than he wants Louis in that moment.  So Harry shows him.

His muscles quiver as he lifts his hips, rubbing himself along the curve of Louis’ thigh.  His eyes roll back in his head and his breath escapes his lungs in a low groan he doesn’t even recognize as his own voice.  Louis isn’t the only one losing control of himself.

Thing are merely made worse as Louis breaks away, letting out of a shocked gasp against Harry’s sore lips.  This time Harry’s not even aware of his movements until his hips have jutted forward once more.  Harry’s khakis grow tighter and his breath more shallow and Louis’ eyes two shades darker.

Suddenly, things are messier.  There’s a blur as their bodies rearrange, the only sure thing being Louis’ firm grip on Harry’s bicep, other palm finding purchase against Harry’s chest.  He’s moving now, either as a teasing motion or an act of relief--it doesn’t matter, it has the same effect on Harry.  As the world refocuses around him, he struggles to lift his hips in time with Louis' motions.  He can feel the man against his thigh, as tense and strong as his expression looks ruined.

Harry’s hands find Louis’ waist, trailing smoothly over his bum just once before gripping his hips steadily, waiting for the sailor’s efforts to wear thin.  Only then does he take control, lifting his hips slowly--achingly so--starting at the man’s knee and trailing up to his hipbone.  He can only repeat the moment two times before he’s forced to stop, the smoldering ache in his stomach threatening to rip him in two.  He doesn’t dare shut his eyes, though, too fixated at the sight of soundless words forming on the older man’s lips.  His eyes are blown wide and his skin is flushed red, and Harry doesn’t think it’s fair that someone can look that handsome in such an intense situation.

All at once, Louis is bent over him, taking advantage of his abrupt weakness.  Louis’ lips sloppily brush the shell of his ear, and it frightens him how much he wonders what they would feel like against other parts of his body.

“I thought this was going to be your first time.”

Harry can hear both pout and pleasure in his terribly mistaken confession.

“ _It is._ ” 

Harry’s barely breathed the words before Louis’ freshly tensed frame has risen up once more, sparkling blue searching emerald depths diligently as if Harry is always the one telling jokes.  Words are wasted, trembling lips soundlessly forming above him before crashing down to make Harry feel the phrases Louis can’t find.

A whimper escapes the sailor at last, as if his voice has finally returned.  Louis breaks away at once.

“I want to be your first.”  He punctuates the desire with a soft kiss to Harry’s swollen lips.  “ _God,_  Harry, I want to be your first.”

There’s another thirty seconds of sloppy kisses and nose breathing before Harry replies.

“Yeah.”  He sighs dumbly, eyes wide and innocent.  “I want that too.”

And it seems to be all Louis can do to find the button of Harry’s trousers rather than simply ripping them at the seams.  Harry faintly hears a breathless chant of, “I need you” echoing his own.  Then he hears nothing but white noise as Louis’ hand finds his zipper and begins discovering a new area of Harry’s body.

It’s like he’s not even alive, except for the burning trail of Louis' finger tips--across his trembling abdomen, along the elastic of his briefs, and down into the uncharted region below.  It’s not long before Harry’s eyes are rolling back in his head and every breath is escaping his lungs in a gasp with Louis’ hand wrapped around him.  It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt--the cool burn left along the half of his covered half of his length.  As the touch lingers Harry forces his eyes open, only to find Louis watching him already without the trace of a laugh or a smile or amusement of any sort.  Burning blue eyes catalogue his every moan and motion.

Suddenly, he finds himself pushing forward into the grip, needing movement more than he needs oxygen.  He lifts his hips, delighted as the small hand looses its grip, allowing Harry to move up and down inside of it.  Harry feels his pulse throbbing across his body and the cool burn of Louis wrapped around him and a flutter in his heart at the glimmer he now finds in the cerulean eyes.  It’s all he can do not to release right now.

“ _Louis,_ ”  Harry whines, warning, and thank God Louis understands because he doesn’t think he would have been able to manage another word.

In silent comprehension, the man crouches at the foot of the bed, tapping Harry once in silent question before he’s sliding the trousers from the boy’s lifted hips.  

“Are you sure you’re going to last?”  he asks quietly, pants pulled only down to Harry’s lanky kneecaps and seemingly entranced by the milky white skin, tracing stripes along the slight curve of Harry’s thigh. 

Harry says nothing but nods resolutely, at first just once, then twice as Louis obliviously lifts his head at the lack of an audible response.  Harry hears the sailor lets out a sigh at his sharp movements, pressing one lingering kiss the scar he’d begun tracing before finishing to pull off the pants, tossing them nonchalantly to the corner of the bed.  If Harry had half a mind, he’d be worried about facing punishment for the imminent wrinkles in his uniform.  But he doesn’t, and what he does have of a brain has been lost to the intuitive mantra of  _Louis, Louis, Louis._

Harry watches Louis folds his socks, of all things, neatly in half before throwing them off the edge of the bunk and returning all attention to the boy sprawled out before him.

He presses a kiss to the other thigh, making things even, on his way up back up to Harry.  A moment later, Harry is lying helplessly beneath the sailor’s straddle as he teasingly drops his bum back into Harry’s crotch before leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.  Harry cradles his jaw, kissing back once… twice… three times for good measure.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” 

Even with the tension in the stale air between them, the heartbeat Harry can feel pounding beneath his fingertips, and the too-apparent state of the man's body, Harry can tell Louis’ words are sincere.

“There’s nothing I don’t want,” he promises, grateful when Louis lets him tilt his jaw to work at the golden skin of his neck.  The contrast of the red and the gold reminds him of Christmas, and he’s just as delighted.

“What  _do_  you want, Harry?”

The words make it out coherently, sentence only polluted by one groan, although they notably lack the previous innocence.  Harry reluctantly releases Louis' pulse to breathe his answer against the flushing love bite.

“ _You._ ”

Just as quickly as the skin had been released, Harry reclaims it.

“ _How_  do you want me, Harry?”

This time moans freely mutilate his words, which are now void of all innocence.  Harry doesn’t miss it as much as he might have imagined.

“Hard,”  he breathes into one kiss.  “ _Completely,_ ” he whispers breathily into the burning skin just below Louis’ ear.  “ _Immediately._ ”  He punctuates the last word with a thrust of his hips, glowing at the soft squeal the sudden movement elicits.

“ _Cheeky,_ ”  Louis hisses.  Harry feels him roll his hips back in response, earning a squeal of his own--Louis immediately silences it with a press of his lips.  Harry doesn’t bother pointing out that he can feel the man smiling into the kiss.

His hands leave Louis’ neck, fingertips trailing down his back and eliciting airy giggles before tugging once more at the hem of his shirt.  Sixteen seconds later and they’re kissing again, this time more comfortably so with the shirt added to the growing pile of clothing at the foot of the bed.  Harry’s hands venture lower, tickling the pale skin hiding beneath the waistband of Louis’ navy trousers.  He fancies the idea that his are the first to map out this territory--the Lewis and Clark of Louis’ body.

His fumbling hands find the button, popping it open with ease once he manages to stop their shaking for four seconds, and at the sound of Louis’ hitched breath all coherent thoughts are gone.  It’s just mindless ramblings of  _Louis_  and  _my Louis,  so beautiful,  so damn perfect…_ He tugs the pants lower around the sailor’s thighs, slowly, carefully, almost fearing breaking either the man or the moment.  Harry manages to roll them over--nothing short of a miracle in the damned tiny cots they’ve been given--so that he’s on top.  With a new ease, he is able to slip the pants free completely, throwing them carelessly toward the foot of the bed.  He thinks he hears them land on the floor. 

Louis is sprawled out before him, breathless and clothes less in nothing but his briefs.  Harry is unsure whether to recognize the tented white, all he can see in the entire berthing spare for sparkling cerulean eyes. 

He’s being pulled down again, by one hand gripping at his upper arm and the other tangling in his curls.  The kisses that ensue are just as hesitant as their first--calculated and careful and leaving his stomach helplessly flipping over itself.

“I want you…”  Harry feels Louis breathe into his lips, cutting himself off with one last chaste press before pushing Harry back slightly so that he can look him in the eyes.  “I want you inside of me…”  His confidence seems to break as his gaze travels lower and his blush higher, up to the crinkles around his eyes.  Harry presses a kiss to the wandering warmth.  “If that’s okay with you.”

Harry’s never been in love, or at least he doesn’t think he has been.  There was one time in the high fifth grade when Laurie Godwin let him have half of her molasses cookie at lunch, then kissed him during recess--he had thought that was close to love.  But now with a beautiful, blushing boy beneath him, wanting Harry more than anything else in the world, Harry thinks he’s a little bit closer.

His mouth his dry and his words are gone, so he nods.  He nods a lot, until he hears a laugh from beneath him and starts kissing his answer instead.  It’s delicate and deep and cut short by a roll of Louis’ hips that feels a lot like the word, “please.”

Harry pushes his hips back twice before moving his kisses downward.  He kisses Louis’ jaw, the curve of his neck and sucks his own reminders into his collar bone.  He kisses the planes of his chest and brushes his lips along the curve of his belly.  Harry kisses his emotions down the curve of his thighs and then up the inside--gentle tugs and soft tongues and long caresses.  He stops only when he reaches white cotton, eyes drifting up hesitantly.

He’s not sure what he expects to find, but he’s shocked to see the man with his eyes shut, head tilted back in pleasure.  He’s breathing through his mouth, with a little line of focus in between his puckered brows.  Harry waits for his eyes to open again, making sure that the man’s watching him as he tugs at the elastic edge.

All at once, the man is there in front of him--open and vulnerable and trusting him completely.  He’s never had anything like this--someone who isn’t scared of him messing things up or shattering them entirely.  He’s never had anyone trust him this much, even the Air Force holds threats high above his head as to what would happen should he not follow orders entirely, and he’s risking his life for them.  He supposes he’s risking his life with Louis too, because he’s not sure at what point the man began to mean so much to him but he does--Louis means everything.  Harry would stay up all night just to hear him ramble off stories about his mother and sisters back home.  Harry would endure a million punishments should he have to give Louis his comfort rather than Doolittle his time on deck.  Harry would do anything for Louis, especially this.

He presses a kiss down, hesitant and scared because  _what if he’s doing this wrong, what if Louis doesn’t like it?_   Because, quite frankly, Harry’s not sure whether he likes it.  But if it makes Louis happy, Harry is willing to spend the rest of his life doing it.

His lips sweep down the length, then back up it, pressing a kiss to the tip.  Harry decides he doesn’t have to pretend, because this is Louis' body and he cares for Louis entirely.  He kisses once, twice, and is surprised to find that not all of Louis’ body tastes like coconuts… the new skin just tastes like  _Louis._   He looks up in silent question, which he still finds himself voicing because Louis is a world away.

“I don’t know…”  He watches Louis' eyes refocus and brighten only a shade lighter.  “I don’t what to do…”

Louis says nothing, but squirms about beneath Harry, reaching for a tin resting on the edge of the bed without really bothering to get up.  Harry picks it up and hands it to him.

“Petroleum jelly,”  Louis states, taking the lid off, as if it’s supposed to make the slightest amount of sense.  “Budge up,”  he orders and pushes Harry back a bit with his free hand.

Harry just watches, curious, as Louis sticks a finger into the tin, coating the tip with the jelly.  Harry has heard a lot of things from the boys in the city, but not about this.  Harry hears Louis call for him to watch, so he does.  The man’s hand continues to travel down his body, until it halts at the entrance to his bum.  Harry feels Louis’ eyes on him--as he meets the gaze, he can tell that Louis is doing more than just making sure that he’s paying attention.  But Harry’s eyes are once again fixated on Louis’ finger, which is moving now, pressed against the skin there.  It circles him for a moment before it’s gone, lost beneath the surface.  Harry gulps, and as he feels the heat spread across his face he’s sure Louis found the reaction he was looking for.

But then Louis’ finger is free and his other hand is tossing Harry the tin.

“That’s all there is to it.”  Harry dry swallows again, at both the implication and inappropriate smile making its way across Louis’ face.

Louis wants him to do the same.

It’s not that he thinks that he’ll  _break_  Louis, it’s just that he’s afraid to do something wrong.  Louis is surreal, and every day since Harry met him has been just as unbelievable.  Leave it to him to be the one who does something stupid and wrecks it all.  Because he doesn’t want to wreck things with Louis, not by a long shot.  He doesn’t think he ever would have been able to make it through these restless weeks heading into the war--no, he  _knows_  he wouldn’t have been able to get through any of this without Louis.  And that’s something too precious to destroy.

It’s only when Louis lifts himself from the bed that Harry feels his brow has wrinkled--his emotions must be plastered across his face.  But the man in gentle, bending forward to weave his fingers through the base of Harry’s curls and whispering soft comforts against his lips.

“You’ll be fine,”  he promises in between breathless kisses, “It'll be perfect no matter what…  _It'll be you._ ”

He might have said more, Harry half-mindedly wonders if there was anything more to say, but he doesn’t get the chance because Harry’s finger is slicked and pressing into him.  Harry hears all Louis' thoughts leave him in a sudden rush of air, but Harry’s hardly paying any attention to his noises.

Instead, he’s watching Louis’ face contort into expressions that match the movements of the muscle around his finger.  He twirls his fingertip, coating the walls on all sides, and watches as Louis’ blissful expression matches the abrupt relaxation around his finger.  Harry lets his fingertip slide forward, then back, doing his best to coat the distance as well as the circumference.  It’s increasingly difficult to do so when Louis’ hips begin to move on their own accord.

A mumbled string of words fall from his mouth, littered with sensual moans--the only decipherable sound being a plead for “ _more._ ”

Harry isn’t sure whether he means more jelly or more  _more,_  so he acquiesces both.  He slips his finger out for only a moment recoating both it and the one next to it before slipping them back in.  A slow moan escapes the man below him, and Harry supposes he must have done something right to earn it.  He works  _with_  rather than against Louis’ hips now, moving in time with them to coat his body evenly.  He crooks his fingers as he gets to the top, intent on leaving no corner uncovered, and feels the man immediately fall apart around him, hips falling limp mid-motion.

Harry lets the shock distract him only for a moment--seconds later his fingers are moving again, intent on completing the task at hand.  It’s only two minutes before Louis' shallow breathing gives way to breathless words and Harry refocuses on the world around him.

“I’m ready.”  Harry’s fingers fall limp at the sudden announcement, other hand tracing calculated circles across Louis’ inner thigh.

“You’re sure?”

Harry’s fingers slip free just as a hand reaches down, pulling him toward the head of the bunk by the back of his curls.

“God,  _yes,_ ”  Louis whispers against his lips, capturing them again and again as if to prove his point.  “Yes.”  His free hand slips down Harry’s chest and Harry feels the kiss slip to the corner of his mouth.  “Yes.”  Thin lips trace his jaw just as dainty fingertips trace the waistband of his briefs.  “Yes,” Harry feels the man groan against his pressure point, hand fully engulfing Harry now.

It’s only a minute later when Harry finds himself pumping forward into Louis' grip.  The grip on his hair releases as Louis fumbles with the petroleum jelly once more.  Harry’s shocked as he finally feels it against his skin, cool yet warming as Louis rubs it into his length.

He can’t get over the feeling of Louis around him--the tiny hand can’t cover even half of Harry at any given time, yet is so skilled that Harry finds himself falling apart at the touch.  Harry can feel him spreading the jelly slowly, up and down his shaft, before swirling the tip of his thumb around the edge, covering it just as evenly.  Harry can tell he’s growing more confident as the hand travels lower, sneaking in a quick swipe across Harry’s testicles before Harry’s got him,  pinning him firmly to the bed with an apologetic brush of his lips.

Harry wastes no time returning to the foot of the bed and promptly pulling his briefs the rest of the way off, transferring all of his attention to the man in front of him.  He pauses as he moves to align his penis with Louis' entrance, looking up to find blue eyes silently urging him on.  Tan legs carefully wrap around his middle, pulling Harry closer until he’s finally pushing inside.

Harry feels dizzy, not just from the sudden pressure.  His world is unexpectedly turned on it’s side because he’s on a unyielding steel ship in the middle of the North Pacific Ocean, and he feels home.  He’s making love to the magnificent man before him and only one word can describe anything he's feeling:   _home._

“ _Harry,_ ”  he hears the words hissed through clenched teeth, “Please move.”

So he does.  At first slowly, then more comfortably.  He watches Louis' face, gauging the quality of his movements by the expressions he discovers there.  Pain.  Longing.  He continues to obey Louis' orders, accelerating  toward the pace of his heartbeat.  Concentration.  Harry watches Louis' face lose a bit of its tension as his eyes begin to wander about Harry’s face--in all honesty, he looks concussed--and there’s nothing more beautiful than the fact that Harry’s the one doing this to him.

Harry readjusts their tangled limbs and Louis lets him do so--now Harry’s lying atop him, close enough to press soft kisses to his lips.  The fact that Louis can hardly find the breath to kiss him back sends Harry rocking more swiftly into him.  With Louis too busy catching his breath, Harry shows his affection elsewhere.  His lips brush up the mans defined cheek bones, to his forehead, then to the adorable crinkles by his eyes.  Harry presses an extra kiss there.  Then he’s traveling lower adding the memories on Louis’ neck.  He decides to place one atop his jugular, as close as Harry can get to the mans heart.  He feels the pulse there, racing for him, and allows the beat to flow through him down to where Louis is beginning to keep pace with his hips.  Harry nips once… twice… at the skin, the echoing shouts of pleasure only tightening the growing knot in his stomach.

“Touch me.”  The words are so soft that Harry’s not even sure they were really said in the first place, until one hand unclenches from the sheets to move his head back up to eye level.  “Touch me, Harry.   _Please._ ”

Harry takes one look at the pleading blue eyes and the desperate pucker of his brows, and he honestly doesn’t know why he hasn’t already.  He shifts all his weight to his left arm, using the other to reach between them, letting his fingers trace teasingly over the sticky skin on his way down.  He watches Louis’ face carefully as he takes the man in his hands.  Harry’s always had awkwardly large hands to match his lanky body, so it’s not surprising that one grip almost covers Louis entirely, but Harry’s still surprised by how much Louis wants this.  He’s big, there’s no way around it--his penis is just as well built as his thighs and his arms--and fits comfortably in Harry’s hand.  Harry can feel the desire pulsing through every inch of it.

Harry moves slowly, delighted in the shallow breaths that follow.  The pumps gradually begin to keep time with the rest of their bodies, Harry’s hand moving up and down just as his hips surge forward and back.  This elicits a low moan from Louis, only to be echoed by Harry’s own.  Curiously, he traces the tip--encircling it with the tip of his thumb before tracing a line straight across the middle--and takes pride in the look of concentration that appears on Louis' face.

Harry continues--tugging and tracing and pounding his hips into Louis own, matching the anticipating race of his heartbeat.  The man is falling apart beneath him.  He crashes his hips forward three more times, flicking his wrist and rubbing smoothly back and forth across Louis' head.  He feels the sailor's grip tighten around his bicep, lifting himself from the cot and matching Harry’s enthusiasm.  For once, Harry couldn’t give a damn about the bruises.  Louis is moaning and breathing and echoing Harry’s every movement with the most  _obscene_  sounds, but somehow it’s still the most beautiful thing Harry has ever experienced.  Between the grunts and groans, Harry manages to tell him so.

Then Louis is everywhere--he’s tensing up around Harry’s length, he’s gripping on Harry’s arm holding him firmly in place, he’s all that Harry can hear as the man calls out his name, and he’s the warm liquid spreading between them.  He’s everything that pushes Harry over the edge.

Harry feels the exhilaration coursing through his veins, his mind, and at last out into Louis.   _Louis._   It’s all he sees and thinks and feels, and all he desires as he leaves the world behind him.  He must call out something along those lines because as he reenters the world, trembling and tingling and vision still tinted black, Louis is there--tracing soothing circles into his side and waves up his arms.

He doesn’t remember pulling out, but he must have because when he finally comes back to his senses, he’s lying beside Louis on the cot.  He sees the bottle of water resting against the mattress and feels of the washcloth against his skin.  Louis’ eyes are squinting in concentration and he has slightest smile on his lips.  Harry wants to kiss it away, so he does.

He reaches out and pulls the man to him, ignoring his objections of “ _Harold, I’m busy!”_  and stealing the words from his lips.  This is a better use of Louis' time anyway, Harry thinks. 

The embrace isn’t long or deep, rather just one soft kiss followed by another, neither of them having the energy for much more.

“ _I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,_ ”  Louis whispers against Harry's lips, so quietly that he feels rather than hears it.

It’s only then that Harry realizes how much he must mean to Louis in return, for him to go out of his way and risk everything just to give Harry this one unfading memory.  They could lose everything if someone were to walk in, everything except each other, but Harry’s suddenly pretty sure they could live either way.

“I’m coming back,”  he promises, because although Louis would never ask the question, Harry can feel it in him.  “I’m coming back from this war,  _and I’m coming back for you._ ”

Harry pretends that he can’t feel the tears on his chest just like he keeps pretending that he can’t hear the test flights taking off from the top deck.  But there are some things Harry doesn’t have to pretend about anymore, because he’s found something much closer to love than molasses cookies and playground kisses, and definitely worth fighting for.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the end. 
> 
> I guess now would be the proper time to tell you that I've discussed possibly expanding this world into other one-shots. I don't think that I would ever be able to give a definite ending to the subsequent events, but I've been entertaining the possibility uncovering the events leading up to this point in their journey.
> 
> If you have any comments or ideas about the matter, feel free to share them.


End file.
